you're staring me down, a glance makes me weak
by strangervision
Summary: Movie-verse: Natasha has vices, and when she's stressed she likes to slip her hand where she likes it most and self-complete. It's not her fault Clint has bad timing. Characters not mine at all, oops.
1. Say now you want to shake me too

This time, the song is by All American Rejects, called "Dance Inside". It's like the only sexy song I know, so. **I WROTE SMUT GUYS**. Nobody probably even cares, but I'm going away on a camp so this is a going away post-thingamajig. Plus, I did promise I'd stall with smut. So, **Rated Mature/Explicit/R/Whatever synonym for smutty as hell with little semblance of a plot.** There. Have fun reading, I hope I did okay and still kept the characterisation in check. Oh, also, **totally movie-verse**. Didn't read the comics, and I know Bobbi probably comes after Natasha and she's Clint's wife and it stays that way or what but I just really ship Clintasha, ok? They're like, canon, y'all. I hope I did okay. I will attempt true Porn WITH Plot another time. This is just smut.

Um. Also. There's a continuation when I come back.

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**you're staring me down, a glance makes me weak (eyes for striking)**

Like normal people, Natasha has vices. Unlike normal people, she likes to keep them private, no chinks in her armor, no chance for her to be taken down. She keeps her vices personal and convenient to escape to for short moment. It's easy to keep this a secret until the Fury, for some unexplainable reason, starts having SHIELD book only one room for her and Clint when they go on team missions.

The thing is, her vice is pleasure. Natasha knows how to please herself, far beyond just taking care of her own needs. When her body is tense and humming from adrenaline, she slips a hand down where it feels the best and reminds herself that her fingers can do so much more than fighting. The burst of pleasure in the end is relaxing enough for her to sleep; trigger enough of a buzz so that the sleep is fitful and she's still able to escape if an enemy catches her resting.

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The first time it happens, they're in Poland. They check into the hotel and are handed two card keys to the same room. She tenses a little inside, keeping all surface movements smooth, and they move into the room without speaking. Afterwards, when the mission is done (a span of two or three days later), Natasha is careful not to make any noise in the shower when she goes away into her happy place again. Clint doesn't seem to have noticed anything when she comes out and crawls into the bed. They exchange tired murmurs and then she rolls over and falls into an uneasy sleep.

In the middle of the night, his arm comes around her waist. Because they've been partners for so long, she allows it. It's the most restful sleep she's ever had on a mission.

It goes on and Natasha is stealthy enough that he doesn't notice a thing, she thinks, and she should know since she's really that alert.

Then, months and countless team missions later, SHIELD decides to send them on an easy mission because they're the best team around, and they're needed this time to guide a newcomer. She's particularly skillful, but new on the field and SHIELD doesn't push when they know there isn't room.

Her name is Bobbi. Natasha doesn't quite like her, but she will admit to herself that she's just prejudiced and distrustful of the general world populace.

SHIELD gives Bobbi her own room. For surveillance and training purposes, Natasha has to bunk with Clint again.

He's softer with Bobbi, maybe because she's new on the field and he's more concentrated on her and her learning. Whatever it is, it puts Natasha on edge. Bobbi is good, she will admit, but she still doesn't like the girl. The days pass and the intel is coming in slow. Clint has developed some chauvinistic limb in his soul, whatever, she doesn't know, but he's constantly attentive to Bobbi and how she's faring (she can hear it over the communications, and sometimes rolls her eyes so much they feel like they might drop out of her head). If girls needed that much care all the time, they shouldn't be on the field. She thinks a lot of snarky things to herself but never says them. Natasha Romanov is good at keeping quiet and watching; Natasha Romanov is badass and good at poker faces. She's good at compartmentalizing, which means all the snark she's feeling goes into a box marked "stress" and is to be gotten rid of at the end of the mission, with that vice she's so familiar with. Right now, though, the box has to be buried under some rubble, and _shit, so do those marks_. The mission goes to shit because - Natasha realizes she doesn't know why, but one of the marks knows that Clint isn't the diplomatic, courteous client he's supposed to pose as, and then the crossfire starts.

She swears violently. It's not the worst scenario ever, but even as she's shooting and running through the place to put bullets into heads, she hears Clint trying to get to Bobbi and make sure she's okay. He knows Natasha can hold her own, it's not that that she's bothered with. What about him? Since when did he put himself on a wire for someone else? Resisting the urge to roll her eyes again, she takes down a few more guards in the alleyway and calls SHIELD for cleanup.

It's a hell lot more than it seems like, but it always goes by in a flash and now Natasha is tired, her muscles are tight and all she wants is sheets and a hand where she likes it best.

"Everybody in the clear?" she bites into the comms, and hears two voices answering in the affirmative. Good, then. She makes her way back to the hotel they're in, pretty sure that all threat has been wiped out more or less. It's easy this time; they've had it worse.

When she gets back, he isn't in the room, so she takes the opportunity to clean her scrapes up and gets into the shower. The hot water runs out before she gets any escaping done, and she hates cold showers so she steps out of it and drags on a shirt and old draggy shorts. Too late, she realizes the shirt was once Clint's. She shrugs to herself, because he's not here to see it anyway so she'll just go to bed.

She takes the end further from the door and closes her eyes, but sleep is not being a good friend today and Natasha knows why. There's no sign of Barton, but she knows he can take care of himself, isn't so much worried as she is apathetic. She will know if something is up, anyway. He will call for her.

Her mind goes quiet for awhile, before she realizes that by instinct, her hand is already sliding down her body. She's sighing before she can help it, content and anticipating what's to come. What the hell, if he's safe and somewhere it's not like he'll come back soon. He's probably cleaning Bobbi up, she can't be bothered.

Natasha slips her hand into the band of her shorts and underwear after several heartbeats, allowing her watch on the door and any signs of activity to slip when her finger brushes past her clit. She's already wet out of habit and knowing what this is. She closes her teeth around her lower lip and slides the finger lower. Her muscles are so tense it almost hurts to push in too deep, so she goes back to circling the hard knot of nerves that's already soaking. She hears a whimper before her brain makes the connection that it's her making that noise, and then she's shifting her hips to make for a more comfortable fit in the bed, under the sheets. The linen whispers over her thighs and she takes a moment to stretch her legs out, hearing a pop in one knee. Already shaky, Natasha pulls a deep breath into her lungs and lets it out as she presses firmly against her clit once. Her finger slips to the side and she jerks a little. Before she can stop it, her mind is searching into images of being touched, of touching. She's remembering being spooned by Barton that first night they shared a room, him not knowing of her vice and him pressing close to her, the heat on his skin and the way his fingers rested just in the divot of her belly button, and then she's arching against her hand and moaning softly, little whimpers of _oh_ that signal a larger cry waiting inside her belly to be released.

Before long she has to stop sporadically to catch her breath, because if she doesn't then her orgasm will be a pitiful fizzling-out of the tense desire coiling in her belly. There is a right time, and it comes between when she's circling her clit and clutching her own breast. She's arching under the sheets and kicks one leg (and half a body, inevitably) out of the thick blanket when ribbons of pleasure start unfurling along her spine, and then she's riding the crest of an orgasm, crying out Clint's name, too far gone to watch what she's doing, when the door snaps open and shut too quickly.

Her gaze cuts to the door and she can see Barton – Clint, watching her, his mouth open, and she knows what she looks like. Her hips are lifting off the bed now, exposed to the cool air, to his heated gaze, and she's keening his name even as their gazes lock. His eyes betray mortification and some measure of arousal; awakening, but Natasha can barely stop herself from crashing into her climax and drawing out his name. She's thinking somewhere in the back of her head: _well, I'm fucked_, but her body is too far gone to stop so she bucks hard against her own teasing fingers. Her mind shorts out after that, and her muscles go on autopilot, so in the haze of semi-consciousness, Natasha realizes that her fingers are still rubbing at herself and the pleasure is making her body jerk hard on the bed.

When she recovers control over her muscles, she slides her hands out from in her pants and sucks them clean, deliberately ignoring Clint and sitting up to go to the bathroom. She's pushing herself off the bed when he comes around it to stare at her.

"What was that?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. Natasha has always preferred being prideful over being honest, so she levels his gaze with her own and says, "Just what it looked like. Look, everyone needs to blow off some steam, alright?"

He won't let her go off so easily, he demands to know, "Couldn't you have done that in private?"

It is the one line that pisses her off, so she's at her feet and glaring at him, and then ugly words are coming out of her mouth, along with, "Look, I was doing it in private. It's not any of my fault that you decide to walk in after schmoozing with Bobbi Morse, and while I'm having a really good orgasm, okay? You're the one with bad timing!" She moves to brush heatedly past him but he catches a forearm in his grip and it takes all she has not to turn that into a fight. She tenses, though, and he offers, "Look, I know you do that sometimes but you always do it in the shower – can't you – I don't know, I just – "

She's glaring at him again, and her voice is dangerously quiet when she next tells him, "Sort your own shit out. I told you, it's not my fault you went off after the damn mission and I didn't know you'd be back in the middle of my self completion."

He shakes his head and then starts to explain and Natasha is sure she really doesn't want to hear this but she is hearing it anyway when he says, "It's not just – I'm fine with you taking your own pleasure, okay, but it just fucks with my head to see you yelling my name when you come,"

Dimly, she remembers that part. _Shit_, she thinks, before swallowing as the implications of his statement hit her right in the chest.

"What?" she murmurs, "Is that supposed to be an insult? Men would kill to see me screaming their names in climax and you – "

He's shaking his head and suddenly she hates the motion, and she's going off on another cursing streak in Russian when he turns around and yanks on her arm, making her fall into him. Then he's catching her mouth with his and kissing her hard enough to bruise, so she kisses back like it's a fight. It's not pretty at all, their lips hard and unforgiving, teeth occasionally clicking together, until she pulls away gasping for breath, and her lips are red and kiss-swollen.

He's staring at her with another kind of gaze now, one that's bare and not hiding anything. She realizes then that he wants her, and a split second later he's taking her hand and holding it to _his_ favourite place. She freezes for a moment. He's hard.

When Natasha Romanov doesn't know what to think, she snaps back to being sarcastic, so this time she throws him a snide remark, "What, Barton, fucking the newbie not enough for you?"

His face hardens then, because she hasn't called him Barton in years, and because he has been doing nothing close to fucking Bobbi Morse.


	2. Until I wrap myself inside your arms

**(my fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in) until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest**

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**Hello! Here it is as promised, a shameless piece of smut. Because, I mean, it's porn…what plot? LOL. Okay, sorry, inner slut talking. Again, ****RATED M/EXPLICIT/WHATEVER RATING STANDS FOR SHAMELESS SMUT** yup. Hope it wasn't too OOC or rushed or illogical, read through it and decided there was enough anger and resistance and desperation to make it work, so I guess it works! I hope? I mean, not exactly a very confident smut author lol. Rambling again. Here it is, then. (Also I do realise that self-completing to fantasies of someone doesn't necessarily mean wanting to have sex with them but let's face it, ok, in my headcanon Clint and Natasha totally want to get it on, so.)

**Also, in case ffnet takes this down, you can find it at (my tumblr space for Clintasha stuff.) Enjoy, and leave me reviews to let me know how you found this?**

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For a tense moment Clint is staring at her with a steady, unwavering gaze that has her shifting inside her own skin. She refuses to back down, meeting his look with a slight tilt of her chin upwards. Then his voice is coming through the haze, saying something about how he's _never even thought about touching the new girl _but he _wants her, and judging by what he saw, is pretty sure she wants him like hell on fire too_. Natasha's not sure if it's because her lower body feels pretty _sated_ at the moment or because his words have quite a wondrous effect at the bottom of her belly, but she can't quite concentrate. She flips him the middle finger and tries to make off to the bathroom but he somehow manages to get her pinned to the bed. When her senses are all obeying her fully again, he's staring at her from inches away.

"Nat," his voice is clipped and she knows that this means he's trying to hold something in before it detonates, "Are you – were you – were you jealous?"

She gives him the fiercest glare she's given anyone in her life and furrows her eyebrows so he know that the question he just asked is of Asgard, maybe, and not this world, before she starts to struggle.

Thanks to the damn orgasm she just had, Natasha's muscles feel like they're deadweight and her limbs are more sluggish than agile, and she eventually gives up. She gives him the eye and deadpans, "Fuck you, Barton."

He smirks then, and she curses his dirty, dirty mind in her head because she can already hear what's going to come out of his mouth next. What she doesn't expect is him demonstrating just where his train of thought goes, and she can't help her body responding to him kissing his way down her neck. She's arching and whimpering a little, simultaneously wanting more and cursing how much trust she has for him in her head, because if she didn't trust him with her goddamn life then her reflexes wouldn't be to let down her guard around him – which, by extension, means that right about now, instead of arching into his heated touch, she would instead be kicking his ass. Lucky her, (or not), she's actually squirming to get more.

"You bastard," she rasps, "I didn't mean that literally,"

She can feel his corresponding smirk against her clavicle when he retorts, "You know you did, and I saw evidence of that,"

His touch coinciding with his words, Clint slides a thigh between hers, the fabric of his pants rough against her inner thighs, nudging against her favourite place and she can't help the way she's grinding down on it, already starting to get wet again right after that last release. She's chasing the building sensation, but he won't let her move too much because – she knows – he thinks it's his turn to drive her crazy now.

"Believe me, Nat, I only have intentions of fucking you – only ever have had intentions of fucking you. Shall I show you just how?"

His breath is hot on the shell of her ear and pleasure wiggles down her spine. Natasha is frantically pressing herself down against his leg again when he withdraws. Already, she's running through her list of how to kill people in this position, but then his mouth is back in the divot at the base of her throat and his fingertips are calloused, gentle against her tummy as he inching her shorts down, and she's losing the list.

He takes a long time to move his lips across her skin, mouthing at her chest and then at her breasts through her tank top – dear god of cheese, she isn't wearing a bra and _boy can she feel that_ – and his fingers brush against her. She's bare to the touch – has always thought that it keeps things more efficient, to have a shaved pussy – and his fingers are firm as they slide against the hidden skin. She jumps, barely remembering that he saw the way she touched herself, _watched_ it enough to learn how she likes it, and he's circling her clit like he knows his way around her.

Natasha is still angry, can still feel the vestiges of her frustration pumping through her veins, but then the lust flaring inside her is more than enough incentive for her to push that aside for now. She also has no idea which sensation to focus on, because he simultaneously closes his hot mouth around a nipple, still over the shirt, and dips a finger into her just so – not pushing in, not really touching hard. She moans, a needy _oh_, and shifts so that her knee is pressed against his groin. His breath hitches, and triumph blooms in her chest at the fact that he's not fully in control of this either. His momentary pause gives her enough time to slip her top over her head and kick her shorts off her shins from where he's left them, and she settles back onto the covers to find him watching her again with that gaze she cannot quite put, maybe because he's never let it lie so blatantly in his storm-grey eyes before.

"What," she breathes, and he shakes his head and his lips are back against her, his hand is everywhere at once, and her mind follows in suit. Pretty soon, she's losing it and he is _still_ tracing frustrating circles around her clit, occasionally dipping the very tips of his weathered fingers into her. There is little she can do besides writhe and moan and plead for more, but he doesn't seem to want to give it to her.

"P-please," she gasps, which is a sure sign that the Black Widow is at the end of her road. She wonders vaguely how he could have so much self-control when he gives in and strokes firmly against her clit with his thumb, pushing two fingers into her and pulling them out again, and the pleasure that previously dulled to a steady throbbing suddenly peaks. "Oh – _Oh, fuck!_" she nearly yells, and he's pressing down even more firmly and sucking a nipple into his mouth, and Natasha convulses against him as she goes over the edge.

"In – inside, now," she manages to get out, "IUD – "

From what feels like a million miles away – but _can't_ be, because he's right there, his hot skin flush against hers in a way that has her wanting more, more – she hears him curse a blue streak, shoving his pants off his own hips and tugging twice quickly before guiding himself into her. He fills her and stretches her, Natasha has never felt more full and more _complete_ – the thought in itself raises read flags and starts bells ringing – and she's barely down from her orgasmic high when he starts to thrust.

Even as her fingers scrabble for purchase against his back, she's meeting his thrusts messily, still a tad oversensitive, jerking a fair bit each time he thrusts so hard he grinds against her clit. Too fast, they're hurtling towards the edge and Clint struggles, has to physically hold her down, his warm hands trembling a little against her hips, to slow it down. She grits her teeth and makes a frustrated noise before she realises there is an amused glint in his eyes.

"Fuck you, Clint," she seethes between her teeth, "I swear, if you don't start moving now – "

He grins at her then, a thoroughly debauched grin that lets her know in crystal clear terms that he needs this as much as she, quipping back, "I know, sweetheart, but it won't be as good if we rush into it,"

"Fuck," she swears again, and he's a little amused at how much of a potty mouth she is when she doesn't get what she wants, "Need you – need you to fuck me, Clint," she's breathless, and it's no wonder, because she's jerking her hips against his and trying to feel him hit that spot inside her – which won't happen unless he's moving, too.

He starts moving again, but it's slow and deep and Natasha can't decide if she likes it more. Eventually, though, it's much too overwhelming and too slow for her, so she starts to buck against him again, and her muscles are clenching and closing, warm and slick around him. Clint can't resist – starts to snap his hips against hers because she's making him _very desperate_ for this, and he finally can relate to what _banging_ or _screwing_ someone might feel like, as crude as it sounds, because this is in no way delicate or pretty, it's just need and lust and want coalescing in that point he's sure hides somewhere in Natasha's body. He buries his face in her neck, marvelling at how she can make fucking in the missionary position so good and so _angry_. She's clawing at his back, gasping and moaning in that low, husky voice of hers. It's unintelligible at first, what she's whimpering and keening, then his name is firm, loud, escaping from those plump lips, so he kisses her to stop himself from yelling because he wants to hear this. Between the heady nips of her lips that he's get, she's pretty much moaning, "Clint, _Clint_," over and over, and he suddenly remembers moments ago when she had been doing exactly that and bringing herself off. There are her thighs, soft and strong, closing around his hips, and she's clenching hard around his cock and bucking against him, uncoordinated and fast and desperate, and the combination of all that is enough to throw him off balance and he's meeting her frantic movements, two last thrusts into her and he's gone, holding her tight to him as he clenches his eyes shut and lets everything else fall away for a few moments.

When he's finally back, he lets out a small groan and opens his eyes to look at her. She's lying beside him and she meets his gaze even as a soft chuckle escapes her lips.

"That good?" she teases, raising an eyebrow. Huh, she's not angry anymore, so he decides to push his luck.

"Why were you so…angry?" he asks, and when her eyes harden, he shrugs and offers an explanation, "You were fucking me as hard as I hate myself sometimes,"

At this, both her brows rise. He's grateful for her multitude of facial expressions, for the way she mouths off so easily around him, for her reactions to his teasing, because more than anything it's a show of camaraderie and partnership and trust.

After a few heartbeats, Natasha says, "You were risking your life for a newbie," and she shrugs like there's nothing to her frustration, but he knows – maybe hopes – that there's more.

"I won't do it again," he says for good measure, though they both know that dying on the field is an inevitability, to say the least. But he knows she needs to hear it, and she nods before moving to get out of the bed.

He's grasping her wrist before he can evaluate the action, and pulling her into the curve of his body before he can decide if it's going to get him killed. She tenses for a moment, and it's more of a message that she's still lethal, than it is anything else at all. So he wraps an arm around her waist and nuzzles her shoulder affectionately. Natasha smiles, a tad sleepy, and lets her own forearm rest against his as she pillows her head on the other. She's not angry anymore, and if they're sleeping in the same bed, she can get used to this new vice. He pulls her tighter against him and closes his eyes. She will later wake to his legs tangled with hers, his fingers drifting dangerously close to her pussy, and a tightening already starting in her lower body.


End file.
